


Letting Off Steam

by atheling



Series: Lancelot and Gawain's Excellent Adventures [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, more pining! not as much this time though, two assholes on a journey together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheling/pseuds/atheling
Summary: Lancelot and Gawain deal with bandits on the road.Or at least Lancelot does.
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Series: Lancelot and Gawain's Excellent Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105058
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Letting Off Steam

“I think,” Gawain announced, half an hour from the middle of nowhere, “that violence is going to be the trick here.”

“It usually is,” Lancelot agreed, unsuspecting. It was a pleasant morning. He was riding in the country with his best friend. Everything was going well for Lancelot. 

Gawain nodded happily. “Right. Well, you see, I bring it up because a couple of men have been tailing us for about the last ten minutes, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Lancelot had. He had been waiting for Gawain to indicate what they were going to do about it. “And I think this could be the perfect opportunity for you to flirt with girls.”

There was always some logic in whatever Gawain said, but sometimes he would forget to include the middle section of his logical process, leaving Lancelot to puzzle it out. “Do you think the men have girls with them?” 

“What?” Gawain frowned. “I mean, I would hope not. No, I just think that people-- you know, just people-- I think they find it pretty sexy when you kill people.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you. But ah,” Lancelot looked concerned. “I mean I’m happy to kill of course but I just don’t see how-- how people could find killing sexy if there’s no people to see killing. Is the problem?” 

“There’s a town up ahead!” Gawain said happily. “And I’ve been carefully accelerating our pace so that we are riding slightly too quickly for them to catch up with us before we arrive. Therefore they must enter the town if they wish to trail us afterward, at which point we’ll-- oh, I don’t know, I’m sure it’ll all work out so some eligible women see you committing acts of wanton violence and want to talk to you afterward.” He paused, taking in Lancelot’s blank expression. “Because of the deal? Remember, we had a deal?”

Lancelot stared at him for one more moment, then nodded tentatively “Ah. Right. Okay. You remembered that. Very good.” 

“I mean, you seemed-- jealous, is the thing, right? So I thought I’d help out.”

“Give me a hand. Yeah. Yup. Oh no.”

This oh no was to indicate they were approaching the settlement. It was on the large end of village or the small end of town, but there were a fair number of people scattered about the broadstreet, and the sign of an inn swung temptingly in the breeze a ways down. They slowed their horses to a walk as they entered. A cluster of villagers approached as they made to dismount, smiles betraying their excitement at seeing not one but two knights. “Hi, everyone,” Gawain said, once they had made all the appropriate compliments to the surrounding buildings. “So, what are your policies here on banditry? And specifically how would you feel about us dealing with some bandits, i.e. the ones who are just coming down the road behind us?”

A passing milkmaid, slowing but not stopping, shrugged and told them to go for it. No one else around objected either. Hardly enthusiasm but tacit permission was permission enough for them. 

It was at that moment that the group of men who had been following them entered the village, casting suspicious looks at each other that seemed to agree not to start trouble unless, as it so happened, it found them. Fortunately for them-- or unfortunately-- Gawain was nothing but trouble.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he said, cheerily striding towards them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I believe you were planning to attack us, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to do so before we attack you.”

Gawain likely thought this was a very polite and gentlemanly presentation of options. From the wrathful looks of the robbers, they disagreed. This impression was only compounded upon the sudden drawing of swords on their part.

“Here we go!” said Gawain with a cheery, job-well-done air. “See, ah, I should 

have spoken more clearly--” He dodged a tentative overhead swing, his own sword still undrawn. “--I’m going to sit this one out, yes, and you can all gang up on him.”

They took a look at each other, then at Lancelot, then at Gawain. One of them shrugged. “Suits us,” he said, and then they charged. 

Lancelot, who had been spacing out a bit, checked back in when faced with the threat of sudden sword activity, but not fast enough to draw his own. The first of the bandits was surprised to find his thrust had been neatly sidestepped, and then even more surprised when Lancelot barrelled into him, forcing him backward until he crashed into the man behind him. Both of them tumbled to the ground and in the moment of confusion before the other two attacked, Lancelot grabbed a knife from his boot and plunged it into the first man’s skull. 

(“Nice!” yelled Gawain from ten yards or so away. “You got this!”)

He pulled his knife back out, batted away a too-desperate swing from the bandit on his left which left its initiator unbalanced, and then planted a solid kick in his stomach. The man toppled backwards, sword flailing pathetically. Lancelot’s knife took him in the eye and he collapsed after a brief moment of shock. 

Before he could pull out another knife-- his sword seemed unsporting, somehow; a village street was no place for swords-- the bandit on his right came at him with a broad swing. He ducked it just in time and darted forward under the blow, close enough to grab the long dirk at the man’s side and, before the man could recalibrate his attack, drew it along his throat. 

That left the man on the ground, who had been pinned under his compatriot. He had struggled free and managed to yank his sword out, but his face was bleeding-- it seemed as though the knife had caught his cheek as well. He glared up at Lancelot, desperation in his eyes, and made to stab him. This endeavour was halted by Lancelot kicking his hand with force and sending the sword flying.  _ Amateur _ , he thought to himself, and then realised he had been backed up against a storefront, and was surrounded by barrels. Perfect. Before the man could find another route of attack, Lancelot grabbed the nearest barrel and brought it down with deadly force over his head.

There were a few moments of breathless and sudden silence, then abrupt, awkward clapping, cheers that might have been catcalls, and the shuffling of a small crowd gathering about. Flushing under the sudden awareness of observation, Lancelot ran a hand over his face, and it came away smeared with blood. 

“You-- that did it. I figure,” Gawain said oddly, and gave an almost shaky thumbs up. “It was very-- good violence,”

He seemed likely to meander on, but the crowd seemed to overcome their hesitation, and, stepping gingerly around the bodies, approached them calling out comments, questions, compliments and indistinguishable exclamations. 

“Are you a knight, Sir?” The milkmaid asked.

“... buy you a drink!” someone else said.

“Oh. Uhm. I should clean up.” Lancelot suggested, a little alarmed by the throng. Seeing this, Gawain made his various polite excuses and gestures which meant they could now retreat to the inn without giving offense. A room was bought, and quiet and calm restored upon cloistering there. 

“That was-- uh-- very impressive,” Gawain said, while Lancelot was rummaging around in his sack to find a mostly clean cloth. “How you killed them without even drawing your sword and everything. Wow.”

“Seemed unsporting,” he admitted. “Do you have--?”

“Here, yes,” Gawain said quickly, withdrawing a clean cloth from a pocket. It was embroidered with small roses that looked like bloody splotches, and Lancelot accepted it carefully, held his breath for the moment both their hands wrapped around the cloth and brushed against each other. Time seemed to slow, or perhaps they were holding that position a moment longer than necessary. 

Lancelot coughed. “You don’t mind? It’s a nice handkerchief.”

“You’ve got blood on,” said Gawain, shrugging.

“It’s not mine.”

“Yes, I’m very glad about that, but you know-- it should still be removed, although I won’t deny it has a certain aesthetic  _ je ne sais quoi _ .”

“It’s sort of-- elegant,” Lancelot said, though he wasn’t sure what he meant. Nevertheless he set to cleaning his face, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Gawain wandered off to dig through various bags, for unknown Gawain purposes. He emerged with some kind of overshirt in soft red leather which Lancelot eyed warily. He was suddenly remembering what the point of this little excursion had been. 

“This,” Gawain said, making his way back over to the bed, “is a doublet all the way from Florence, and if you’re going to be a hit with the ladies, I highly suggest you put it on.”

It was a very fine doublet, as far as he could ascertain, soft well cut fabric of bright red, with gold details and decorated eyelets. “You just had this?”

“You know, you never know-- what’s going to come up,” Gawain said evasively. “Might uh-- with your burgundy hose. Up to you of course. Uh, I’ll turn around.”

Lancelot couldn’t stop himself from laughing under his breath. He was in braies and an undershirt, and-- he thought with some embarrassment-- it wasn’t as though he would  _ mind  _ if Gawain saw him undressed. But the thought was sweet, at any rate. He stripped quickly and changed his bloodstained pants for the hose Gawain had recommended, slid the doublet over his shoulders, and found himself confounded by a mess of strings. “Uh, Gawain…?”

He turned after a moment of hesitation, and observed the issue. “Oh, yes, I should have warned you-- do you mind?”

By the time the end of this sentence had been reached, Gawain was across the room to stand before him, hands reaching out and paused a few scant inches short of the laces, asking permission. 

“Course,” Lancelot said quietly, and then stopped breathing, as Gawain leaned forward-- their faces were very close, very close, and warm hands slid over his neck and chest, clever fingers working with what seemed like torturous slowness, winding up his heart with the laces. The whispered rush of silk through gold eyelets seemed thunderously loud, trumpets in the sky on judgement day, judgement--

Gawain pulled away. “There. Neatly done.” 

“Yeah,” breathed Lancelot, his face flushed, “neat.”

Gawain blinked as if coming awake, stepped back. “Yes, well-- you’ll certainly be a hit with the ladies then. Shall we?”

They descended into the inn.


End file.
